


if you are to bloom

by sannlykke



Series: 戦国奇跡 [4]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, F/M, POV Alternating, Warring states period, background mention of aokise midotaka and nijihimu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5582261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/pseuds/sannlykke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two roads diverge before her, two ways to draw the unrest of the country to an end. There had been little question which one would be chosen for her after Akashi's visit.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>But marriage is more than a war.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	if you are to bloom

**Author's Note:**

> contrary to the summary i have no clue what marriage is like, thanks to not being married. ~~also i have taken way too many liberties with regards to actual history this time\\(:v)/.~~ this will make more sense if you read at least the second fic in the series before reading this one.
> 
> also it says pov alternating but it's more like 80% momoi and 15% akashi and 5% kise

“Dai-chan, do you think this will look good on me?”

“Hah?”

Daiki, as usual, isn’t paying the least amount of attention. Satsuki reaches forward and pinches him on the cheek, earning a yelp and a defeated glare. “What, that sash-thing? I dunno—aren’t there supposed to be people in charge of this stuff?”

“Forget I asked you…”

“Hey, I really doubt Akashi—“ at the name he makes a face, and returns to playing with a loose strand of string on her chair “—would complain. He’s marrying _you_.”

She can tell from his face, unusually solemn, that he means it. Satsuki puts the sash down, dark crimson layered with soft cream accents, and bites her lip. “That’s why I’m asking.”

This time Daiki pretends to be absorbed in a fly’s migration across the room as he answers, “Why the hell are you worrying so much? I’ll punch him if he doesn’t like it.”

 

 

People start to arrive for the ceremony weeks in advance, until the palace and surrounding areas are so overflowing with banners and crests that Satsuki doesn’t know if she can even leave her room without tripping over a guest. Daiki, for his part, has been largely absent. She suspects he is up to something, but he’s as stubborn as a rock, and well—in a way, she still wants to be surprised.

There had been little question from the start of the kind of person she would marry, if she did not end up taking the throne. A hereditary prince, perhaps a duke—someone from her own line. Akashi Seijuurou had been the natural choice who emerged from the chaotic feuds of the country; he was her own age, impeccably well-groomed, and they had known each other, if sporadically, from childhood. Daiki’s grumbling and antics aside, there are few who oppose the match. At the very least, her parents can breathe a sigh of relief that their line will continue on, one way or another.

She steps into the sunlight, knowing that spring will soon be upon them, and so will the status of her being change.

Satsuki has no illusions about her station in life—try as she may, she cannot run away as Daiki had done. Even then he had returned. And she knows having already known her partner would not create the perfect marriage—there is too much of Seijuurou she doesn’t yet understand. _Do I really want to understand?_

A butterfly flutters by her face. She reaches out for it, and falls short. In the distance someone is striking the bell for prayers, and she thinks, _maybe, but I want something to look forward to._

 

 

“I’m surprised you asked me for assistance,” is the first thing Shintarou says upon entering the room. Seijuurou ignores the questioning tone underneath, and instead points at the myriad items in the room, laid carefully in order. “Should it not be easy to choose wedding gifts if you’ve known the princess for as long as you have?”

“Did I ask you here to question me or to help me?”

“You didn’t _ask_ me,” Shintarou replies, a little warily, but he steps up and starts inspecting the make of the instruments, the softness of the silken cloth, the sparkle in the jewels. They both know Shintarou isn’t really here for servants’ work, but the room is quiet and the only sound a light breeze rustling paintings on the walls. It’s a little chilly in here, still.

Seijuurou doesn’t often wonder whether he’s done the right thing. He had been groomed for it from the start, for continuing the family legacy _with_ and _for_ a fine marriage, and he doesn’t doubt he will perform well. But now he looks at Shintarou, absentmindedly murmuring to himself as he meticulously studies each stroke of the brush on a scroll, and he finds it in him to have a little flare of longing in his chest. His eyes narrow very slightly; what is it, then—

“—and he just gave me this _look_ , I can’t believe how seriously—“

The door is closed, but the sounds of laughter and footsteps pass through the seams all the same. Shintarou straightens up at the sound of the voice, and Seijuurou can see his brows furrow and release as his muttering increases. It’s not as if he can hide the small smile that is beginning to form, however.

_Ah._

Satsuki’s face glimmers in the forefront of his mind briefly before fading into whispers, and he sees her smile and Daiki’s seething outrage that would in time recede. He wonders this time how long it’s been since he’d felt that strangeness in his chest, perhaps as long as his mother had been absent. Seijuurou doesn’t know if he _wants_ to know. Would he have tried to figure it out then, if Shintarou had not turned at that moment and Seijuurou had willed his face to smile and to become perfectly in-control of the situation again—

 

 

_In the spring garden_

_The glow of deep pink peach blossoms-_

_Onto the radiant path beneath_

_A young girl comes out._

 

 

It is a day like any other when it happens—although, in the excitement of the morning, Satsuki can almost forgive it to be so. Not warm, but the sun is gentle and casts faded shadows as they leave together down the path leading to the imperial shrine.

Her robes are heavy, layers upon layers of multicolored silk with gold-woven chrysanthemums blossoming along the hems of the topmost crimson layer. Above her head, beneath the bridal cowl, rests heavy the golden comb that had only a few hours earlier sprung forth from the ground— _as will I_ , she thinks. Attendants clear their way as they make their way to the shrine, the kannushi leading in front. She smiles demurely and nods at the groveling people, trying not to think too deeply about the meaning behind their fawning faces.

After all, the princess can marry only once.

Seijuurou walks beside her, his elegant black robes decorated with motifs of pine and mountain, and looming waves crashing ashore. She wonders who had suggested the pattern to him—or perhaps it had been his idea all along. His face is solemn and serene, enveloped in shadow from the large parasol held over their heads. It seems to command a certain response from the crowd; all whispers quiet in respect as the couple approaches, to an impossible sort of stillness that is only broken by the mellifluous tune of the flutes.

The notes dance on her heart, like a gentle rain, and she can feel something rise inside her as Seijuurou takes her hand firmly as they cross the threshold of the shrine doors. The courtyard is large, much larger than it had seemed when she had run across as a child, and their footsteps follow the music towards the interior.

(It is not the first time they’ve held hands, but this time is different.)

They sit.

Guests file into the space outside, filling up until the doorway quietly, in a way that she had not expected them to. The flute has become shrill, turning and twisting around the pillars, and Satsuki wishes it would stop. But there is no time as the doors close resolutely, and the kannushi approaches them. He holds out the sacred branch, and Seijuurou takes it, murmuring the words that Satsuki had been trained to hear. When he is done, a miko places in front of the couple a single white porcelain cup.

The sake flows in a clear stream before her, and she thinks of the garden.

Satsuki can see Daiki fidget, even now, out of the corner of her eye. He’s never been one for ceremonies like this, but at least he is trying. She cannot hear if there are people talking outside, those high lords and courtiers. Only a select few are allowed to be present at the most sacred ceremony, and she thanks the gods that they had allowed, begrudgingly, for Daiki to be there.

Then the cup is held out to her. Seijuurou has done his three sips, and she can feel his eyes on her as the still-warm edge of the cup brushes her fingers. The bitter taste of alcohol stings her lips, but leaves a sweet note down the back of her throat. Satsuki hands the cup back, staring straight ahead.

Again, and again. They alternate for two more times, and by the end she can feel the heat creeping up her face. Satsuki has never been one to indulge in alcohol, even in ceremonies such as this (nor has Daiki, though she suspects he has more access to it.) Her hair feels much too heavy, draping across her neck and back like heavy brocade. She steals a glance at Seijuurou next to her, and is pleasantly surprised to see a faint flush across his cheeks.

They bow.

 

 

_Without a thought_

_For my black hair’s disarray_

_I throw myself down_

_Already longing for the one_

_Who ran his fingers through it._

 

 

Her new home (theirs, she reminds herself) is Rakuzan Castle, newly enlarged and refurbished to suit her needs. She is lucky that it is not far from where her family resides, her ladies-in-waiting are quick to point out, and Satsuki is inclined to agree. A familiar place.

 _Home_ , she tells herself, again.

“Satsuki.”

“Yes?”

“Would you accompany me to the garden in the back? The lilies-of-the-valley are blooming.”

“The what?”

Sometimes she can’t tell if he’s being serious or simply terribly awkward, and it’s endearing in a way she had never considered before. Seijuurou in public was a formidable presence, but in private—Satsuki thinks back to the days where Daiki would pull the most ridiculous pranks on him. Seijuurou always got him back in the end.

It is a bigger garden than the one she shares with Daiki, and Satsuki can see it’s not just the lilies of the valley that are in bloom—there are pink and purple hydrangeas, bright magenta plum blossoms, and a sprawling patch of sakura in the middle, pushing forth its last flowers of the season.

There is still a slight chill in the air, intensified by the breeze. Mountains surround Rakuzan on all sides but one, with the Katsura River winding down its perimeters. Only a little ways down the river is Arashiyama, the scenic playgrounds of many a wealthy noble. All of those lands Satsuki can see belong to the crown, but she also knows who the courtiers really pay their respects to when difficulties arise.

Today Seijuurou is wearing a kimono of white silk, bright red peonies sewn in exquisite detail along its bottom. Even then, his footsteps are more wind than earth, scattering petals as he goes. Impulsively Satsuki starts walking faster, and she reaches the patch of lilies-of-the-valley before he does.

She has never seen them before, but they are the only flowers in this place that look like the bells of its name. They are white and pink, delicate little rows that she runs her fingers under as she kneels down to inspect them closer. “Where did you find them?”

“They come from a land far away to the west,” Seijuurou replies. He’s standing an arm’s length from her, and he doesn’t bend or move his head. “They are few in our country, coming from the wares the barbarians sell the Chinese. A symbol of marriage, they say.”

The bells are soft and fragile, and Satsuki pulls her hand away. “I see. Seijuurou…”

“Yes?”

Maybe wishful thinking would make her hear the tremor in his voice, the change that comes with being called something different. But Satsuki doesn’t know if it’s what she hears. She takes his hand, pulling slightly towards her. “May I…take one into my room?”

Their eyes meet, and both of Seijuurou’s glint red.

 

 

It is known that matters of the state do not wait for anyone.

Dewa at this time of the year is pleasant, which almost makes up for its atrocious winter weather. But Seijuurou is in no mood to sightsee—as his companion almost immediately picks up on.

“Is Aka-chin thinking about Sacchin?”

He smiles briefly, not answering. Not knowing _what_ to answer—it bothers him that this is becoming a familiar occurrence. “Keep your eyes on the road, Atsushi.”

If Murasakibara had noticed his fingers tightening around the reins, he does not comment on it.

“Most of the opposition’s scattered already—” he says instead, dully, not even bothering to stifle the yawn that cut himself off. “What’s left are probably barricading at Daisen. Not like it’s gonna hold off our troops for long.”

“I see.”

“You must’ve really wanted to come, Aka-chin.”

“I did.”

_Did you?_

He turns his attention to the hydrangeas, recently flowered, along the sides of the road. They’re a little different here, from the species in Kyoto. Seijuurou remembers an incident where Satsuki had been playing with the flowers, and ended up throwing them at him and Daiki as she chased them down one of the many long halls of the palace. It had been no small feat to convince her to go after Daiki instead. Of course, Seijuurou had always prided himself on being someone who could bring about assured victory every time.

But marriage is more than a war, and a little more like a game of shogi. Satsuki is fairly decent at the game, having been taught by the same master who taught Seijuurou (Daiki is atrocious, always slamming down piece after piece in reckless fashion, though perhaps that has more to do with Seijuurou’s existence than any lack of talent.)

They haven’t played in a while, even before he’d come up here three weeks ago. It would be long past overdue for a match once he returns.

“Is that the ryuteki I hear?”

Seijuurou could see the barracks up the road, but it is still too far away to tell the moving figures apart. The wind carries the notes of the flute towards them, familiar, mimicking the _gagaku_ he had grown up hearing in the imperial court. Murasakibara shrugs. “Yeah, probably. He’ll be disappointed you didn’t bring the captain along.”

“Dewa is not the only province with problems, I’m afraid.” Yukimaru makes a grumbling sound beneath him, and Seijuurou reaches out to touch his neck. “Most of Satsuki’s household will stay at court for half a year before moving.”

“Hm.”

Murasakibara does not ask further, and Seijuurou does not expect him to. He keeps his eyes on the road, and soon the last notes of the song fade in the summer wind.

 

 

“Ah—! I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No, I mean, it doesn’t hurt…”

Satsuki pulls away her hand apologetically, laying the flute down on the table. A small, self-deprecating sigh escapes her lips. “I suppose I don’t have much talent for this, huh?”

“Well, it was worth a try,” Nijimura admits, as he rubs his shoulder from where Satsuki had accidentally poked him with her flute. “You’re pretty good with the _koto_ , though, Midai-sama.”

She smiles. “Thank you. And you don’t have to call me that…Seijuurou isn’t here, and I don’t think he’d mind, either. This is only a music lesson.”

“Still.” As Satsuki gently places the flute back into its case, she realizes he is watching her—or more accurately, watching the flute. It had not been hers to begin with.

“Are you thinking about Himuro-dono?”

“…Midai-sama, are you teasing me?”

“Of course she is,” Daiki drawls from behind them, having appeared suddenly at the door. “Come on, Captain, let’s spar a bit. I’m bored.”

“Dai-chan, you’re interrupting our lesson!” She pouts at him, standing up at the same time Nijimura does. “And why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be preparing for the meeting in two hours?”

“There’s a meeting?”

“There is,” Nijimura growls, clapping him on the shoulder. Satsuki sighs loudly, ignoring the pleading look on Daiki’s face as he’s hauled off to meet his fate. “Time to go back, your majesty. You’re fortunate the princess actually remembers your schedule even living somewhere else.”

Their footsteps and voices fade down the hall, and it is only when she absolutely cannot hear anything anymore that Satsuki slides her door close. The flute is put back into the drawer from which it came, and she sits in the middle of the room afterwards, long staring at the wall. She has not heard a single word from the north in two months.

 

If Micchan had not been resting from a cold, perhaps Satsuki would have brought her instead of going alone. People come and go through the garden, but she rarely sees anyone stay—today, she is startled to see movement under the cherry tree. By now there are no more blossoms, and the vibrant green of its leaves only serve to highlight instead of conceal. “…Mayuzumi-san?”

“…”

Satsuki sees a book in his hands, smaller than the history texts and poetry collections Seijuurou is fond of that fills their library. Mayuzumi doesn’t move or put away his book as she approaches, but only nods quietly in her direction.

Rarely does Satsuki see Seijuurou interact directly with the servants, though in hindsight she supposes neither does she, really. These are not the people she’d grown up knowing, and though she is afforded all the respect that a lady of the household rightly has, it is obvious that some things are still slow to fall into place. At the very least, everyone seems to be on their best behavior even with Seijuurou not here to oversee. And so she asks, “What’s that you’re reading?”

Mayuzumi looks at her warily. “Nothing a lady would be interested in, Midai-sama.”

She smiles faintly. “If you’re afraid Lord Akashi will be angry with you, I won’t tell him about it.”

“He already knows,” Mayuzumi replies, a little testily. He holds up the book. “It belongs to the castle. Here, have look at it then.”

She reads the first line, and frowns. “—Oh. I didn’t know—”

“That’s totally fine,” chirps another voice from behind, and both of them turn to see Takao Kazunari coming through the chrysanthemum bushes, stretching his arms out in a yawn. Satsuki notices Mayuzumi’s expression change ever so slightly as he looks away. She hands the book back to him. “A rider just came by, Midai-sama. Lord Akashi will be back by nightfall. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“I see.” Satsuki nods, ignoring the look passed between them. “Thank you for telling me.”

(This is such a strange place, she thinks, but stranger still are the people within.)

 

 

“And here?”

“The armies will move here, to Izu,” she points, the silken map weathered against her touch. “The Kise family has directly sent this request to us. I’ve told Nebuya he should leave for Odawara within the week, or early next if weather doesn’t permit.”

“Hm,” Mibuchi says, pursing his lips. “Has this been approved by Lord Akashi, Midai-sama? It looks soon, but—”

“There is no need,” Satsuki says, her voice compounded by Seijuurou’s own as he strides into the room. He surveys the map and makeshift pins laid out on the table, picking up one of the pieces contemplatively. Mibuchi moves away from the table, but Satsuki stays, watching Seijuurou put the pin back in place. “My lord—“

Seijuurou glances at the guards standing outside the door, and they march off. Mibuchi follows them out the next second, murmuring something that Satsuki cannot hear, but she sees Seijuurou nod in approval. The sliding door clicks shut. “Is that the only request so far?”

She shakes her head. “There was a rider from Edo who came in yesterday night, but I haven’t summoned him up here yet. I did not know you would be back so soon.”

“That would be Shintarou’s report.” Seijuurou looks at her, and she can see his eyes glinting strangely. This time, Satsuki finds it difficult to hold her gaze, but she tries nonetheless. “I will take it that everything has been running smoothly under your care?”

It is phrased like a question, but coming from this Akashi there could be nothing more than certainties. Satsuki says, carefully but without hesitation, “Yes. It has.”

“Good.” Then, a little strangely, “How are the flowers in your study?”

Satsuki stares at the map before her, each minute detail seeming to swim before her eyes. _Why the hell are you worrying so much?_ Daiki murmurs, in the back of her head. “They are doing fine, my lord. However…”

“However?”

“I don’t understand why you are asking.” She takes a deep breath, counts, and continues. “Actually, I don’t understand how any of this works. Your people whisper and tiptoe around me half the time, as if I can’t be trusted. You’re gone half of the time and never bother to write.”

“Satsuki—“

“I’m not done,” she says, but Satsuki can see a bewildered look in his eyes—a first, and it scares her perhaps more than anything. But she has to continue, even if she falters at every successive word. “But I’m sorry. I can’t…we can’t, we aren’t _children_ anymore, and this sounds ridiculous and I—“

“Satsuki.”

She looks up. In the distance there is a faint roll of thunder, another bout of summer rain. But there is no storm in Seijuurou’s eyes this time; she knows because she has already seen plenty, in the past. Satsuki does not move or take her eyes off him as he approaches, slowly. There are unspoken rules for a woman speaking her mind, and even in this household, _especially_ in this household—

(There are rumors about the woman she has little recollection of, of an era when she could still ignore the world around her. Daiki would not know, and Seijuurou would not speak. Satsuki suspects she will never know the truth, as naturally curious and good at wrangling information from people as she is.)

“It would be unfair to you,” Seijuurou says quietly, snapping her out of her thoughts. The look in his eyes, she realizes, have changed yet again. “If I said I hadn’t foreseen this would happen. I will talk to my people. And…we will discuss my issue, now. I apologize for the discomfort I’ve caused you.”

Growing up, that was all there had been—the buzz of the palace centered around Akashi Seijuurou’s fantastical background, how he had at fifteen taken his place as daimyo after his father’s untimely death. They had known each other for long, though only meeting occasionally, and that seemed only to deepen the currents beneath. There are stories that even a bird in a gilded cage can believe, watching through the bars, her memories clouded with hints of red and gold.

Maybe it is a simpler understanding for Daiki. But he, too, has another burden to bear. Now Satsuki holds Seijuurou in her gaze, his words soft but clear ringing in her head.

Then she blinks quickly, offering what she hopes constitutes as a conciliatory smile. “I accept for now. There is one more thing…”

“Hm?”

Satsuki picks up one of the shogi pieces from the map, holding it out. The look on his face brings her some relief. “Let’s talk over a game, shall we?”

 

 

(Later that night when the last candle is left burning, she takes him by shoulders and kisses him; he can taste, faintly, jasmine on her lips. If one would compare the imperial siblings to the flame, Daiki would be wildfire, untamable and deadly, too fast and too bright. Satsuki would be the hearth fire, steady and methodical, but even that could easily burn a man, if one were not careful.

Seijuurou knows Satsuki would never let him forget who she is.

But for now he runs his fingers through her hair, pale pink flames fanning out behind her head, and sinks into the bed with the knowledge that most things

_—in time, eleven years and counting for him, a sort-of eternally suppressed dream—_

will change.)

 

 

_Would that a fire from heaven_

_Would pull up the long road_

_You must travel,_

_Roll it up_

_And burn it to ashes._

 

 

Autumn comes quietly, rolling into the Kyoto countryside in brilliant colors, from the imperial forests to the vines crawling along every castle walls and parapets. Satsuki adjusts the comb in her hair near the stone path of the garden, the murmur of flowing water momentarily distracting her from the approaching footsteps. She looks down, and her reflection shimmers at her.

“Midai-sama.”

“I’m ready.”

In the past years she had always attended momijigari with the court as well as all the nobles in the surrounding areas, and the lines could stretch on forever on the streets. This retinue is much smaller, and they leave three days before the larger procession. All the better; this time they go on horseback, and Satsuki had been making sure she could put Seijuurou’s wedding gift of a riding saddle to well use.

“Next year,” he says, as they arrive at the pavilion—a new one, Satsuki notices, away from the usual viewing grounds—“We may be able to view this in Nikko. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Is it safe enough?”

“It will be.” Seijuurou takes her hand, leading her up the stairs and away from the rest. He had not left since their confrontation three months ago, and life had continued on as if it had just been a blip in the norm. And perhaps that is that—a golden leaf falls on his shoulder, and she picks it up. The country is coming together again, finally, after too many long quarrels. There is no time for other issues to intervene.

 _No time._ Satsuki holds out a hand, and they watch the leaf blow away, gently, settling into the stream below. Quickly it is lost among the thousands of others like it that cover the waters, a shimmering snake moving sluggishly around the length of the hill. _But then what other time will there be?_

“Mibuchi-san told me,” she blurts out, unable to hold it in anymore, “You’re going to Yamaguchi next week.”

“I will be.” There is a sort-of sigh in his voice, somewhat indulgent. Satsuki takes it as her cue, pausing before she does so.

“I’m coming with you.”

Seijuurou’s expression doesn’t change, even as the wind picks up, showering the space between them with leaves in every color. It's a longer moment than she had thought, and for a split second she bites her lip, unconsciously holding her breath. “Actually, Satsuki…I’d like for you to come.”

“Eh?”

“The weather would be more agreeable,” he smiles, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. “But more importantly, you have done well in my absences. Perhaps you might be ready for a change of scenery.”

Satsuki can feel the creeping warmth on her cheeks, reminding her of that spring day. It had been a while since; she looks down hastily at their feet. _There are people watching_ , she thinks vaguely, self-consciously, but there is no reason not to look up. And that wry smile is still there, just as she had imagined. “You know me too well.”

 

 

 _I’d rather say, Satsuki,_ you _know yourself too well._

 

 

 

 

“You know,” Ryouta yawns, stretching and smacking the wooden doorframe loudly in the most ridiculous fashion, “I think we should go down and wait. They’ll be here any moment, won’t they, Midorimacchi?”

Midorima does not turn around, but Ryouta can see him press harder into the scroll with his brush. “Please stop destroying my house, Kise.”

“Come _on_ , it’s been a while since you’ve seen them either.”

(It takes another few moments of Ryouta shuffling around the room behind him, moaning about the lack of Takao in the perimeters of the castle, for Midorima to give up on his letter-writing and forcefully kick him out of the room.)

“Ehh, it’s cold out here…”

After sufficiently wrapping himself up in an extra robe, Ryouta hums to himself as he takes inventory of the lands surrounding Edo from above. Midorima had done an excellent job at governing; that is the sort of thing that comes naturally to a person like that, Ryouta thinks as he scans the horizon. It was no coincidence that Akashi had chosen him, nor, he thinks wryly to himself, was it so that he had aimed so high for a choice of bride. 

In a matter of moments he spots dust clouds approaching from the west, and he frowns. Galloping horses are no part of visiting courtiers from the capital, that much he knows.

 

Midorima is drawn out of his room at the loud noises of banging, both hands over his ears. “What is that infernal noise? _Kise_ —”

It had seemed a fine idea at the time, but now Ryouta only grabs his hand and pulls him down the flight of stairs. They reach the bottom panting slightly; already the outline of horses are visible, and it is with widened eyes that Ryouta stares at them nearing the edge of the moat.

“Midorimacchi…”

It is not yet snowing, but only now does Ryouta realize that Midorima isn’t even wearing an overcoat. The taller man adjusts his glasses, his teeth chattering from the cold as he bit out, “I don’t know what you’re going on about, but I doubt you needed to bring me down for mail—“

“It’s _not_ the mail!” He points for Midorima to see. “It’s Momoicchi and Akashicchi!”

The guards let them through; coming up the bridge is Satsuki, her hair up in a tight bun, the auburn mare underneath her stamping the ground impatiently as her companion walks up beside her. Their procession is nowhere to be seen; nor, Ryouta realizes, do they want any to be there, at least for now. Satsuki is already waving, and he returns the sentiment energetically. “Momoicchi! I didn’t know you could ride—“

“Seijuurou taught me,” she replies, as he helps her off the horse. Ryouta could see Midorima’s eyebrows shoot upwards at the name. Satsuki’s face is flushed red from the cold,“It’s only for this stretch—I can’t let the people see me like this, can I?”

“On the contrary, I believe you are too fast for them to see.”

“I can’t believe this,” Midorima mutters as he waves at the guards to lead the horses to the stable; at this point Ryouta can’t tell if his face is red from the cold or the scene playing out before them. “You should’ve— _told_ me, that you’d be coming like this. And where are the others? Don’t tell me you left them behind.”

“We, um, might have?” Satsuki flashes him a grin—it is then one could tell she and Daiki are siblings after all, and Ryouta might have suppressed a giggle or two at the indignant look on Midorima’s face. “Ah, I hope this was not too intrusive, is it?”

Midorima turns towards Akashi, who had all this time watched them with a serene smile. “Alright then, anything you’d like to say?”

“Not at all, Shintarou. Well—Kazunari will be here in an hour, with the rest of the group. Was that what you really wanted to ask?”

“…Forget it.”

A slice of afternoon sun peeks out of the clouds, drawing thin lines of gold on the ground between the trees they pass. The comb atop her head seems to catch fire in the light, and Ryouta smiles wistfully at the sight of it, at least until he feels a hand steal into his and squeeze, tightly.

 _I know_ , her smile says, as she lets go.

 _Well, there’s always the festival next year_. Ryouta blinks at the scroll in his hand, recognizing the seal and chicken-scrawl rendition of his name. Satsuki is already chattering away between Midorima and Akashi, her footsteps light beneath the colorful hem of her riding coat.

The evening rush of birds rustle the branches overhead, shaking loose the last withered leaves of winter. Edo is always nicer in spring with flowers around, though they still don't hold a candle to those in Kyoto, or even Odawara. But even now, there are some things that are blooming. Ryouta shakes his head with a smile, walking faster to catch up, and thinks about the coming year.

 

 

_Like the snow_

_That is falling today,_

_May the New Year and early spring_

_Pile up more and more_

_Happy events!_

**Author's Note:**

> ...suddenly this turned into a new year's fic!! :'D happy early new year???
> 
> \- all tanka are taken from either the [man'yoshu](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man%27y%C5%8Dsh%C5%AB) or other imperial anthologies of poetry. the last one in particular is the last entry of the man'yoshu.  
> \- i tried to follow medieval terms of address as well as i could but well _(:'3  
> \- lilies-of-the-valley (suzuran) are popular in japan now but were originally french and didn't come to japan until much later  
> \- 'Midai-sama' is the usual term of address for the shogun's (proper) wife  
> \- [momijigari](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Momijigari) is a japanese tradition of visiting scenic areas in autumn to view the changing colors of the leaves, with the cities of nikko and kyoto being two popular destinations
> 
> (lies on the ground)   
> i think here i also have to say that the next epilogue-ish installment of the series will be a departure from straight-up historical fiction. ~~so, er, hopefully that will be up around kuroko's birthday orz~~
> 
> as always, any feedback is welcome!


End file.
